Wednesday, January 9, 2008

Playthings

Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a
broken twig all the morning.
I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig.
I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour.
Perhaps you glance at me and think, "What a stupid game
to spoil your morning with!"
Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in
sticks and mud-pies.
I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of
gold and silver.
With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both
my time and my strength over things I never can obtain.
In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire,
and forget that I too am playing a game.
["Playthings" by Rabindranath Tagore. Translated into English by Tagore himself; you can see the collection here. I don't like the choice of the word 'mud-pies'. Doesn't sound right]